


The Blizzard of Piffling Vale

by SupposedToBeWriting



Category: Wooden Overcoats (Podcast)
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:14:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26608843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SupposedToBeWriting/pseuds/SupposedToBeWriting
Summary: A once-in-a-millennium snowstorm hits Piffling Vale, trapping local undertakers Eric Chapman and Rudyard Funn (and bestselling author Madeline the Mouse) alone in a local café. It's Rudyard's worst nightmare come true, particularly because sustaining irrational rage for Chapman for that long can't be good for his health. They must cooperate and compromise in order to survive the night - without creating a need for a funeral in the morning.
Relationships: Eric Chapman/Rudyard Funn
Comments: 18
Kudos: 109





	1. The Journey

**Author's Note:**

> CW (for entire work): Mention of corpses

To say that it never snowed in Piffling Vale would be strictly unfactual. Inevitably, once or twice a year, the liquid downpours would solidify into something roughly the texture and covering capacity of severe dandruff. The village nevertheless annually reacted as if it were a once-in-a-lifetime anomaly. Surely a sign of the end times. Like clockwork, the front page of Piffling Matters would be plastered with images of the skyborne secretion for a week. Any snow-related damages would be listed with the same solemnity of an obituary.

To say that it never blizzarded in Piffling Vale would, on the other hand, be strictly factual and would doubtlessly herald the end times. Such a historic event would dominate the front page of Piffling Matters for at least a fortnight, and could even appear in audio-based media, such as the radio.

In fact, at that very moment, Piffling FM broadcasted a rather catchy cacophony of static and feedback from Georgie’s radio. While barricaded inside the relative coziness of Funn Funerals, Georgie and Antigone had been eagerly listening to the device. It wasn’t providing much by way of information, however. Georgie let out a frustrated grunt and stabbed the radio off when it became clear that the rapidly falling snow wasn’t exactly _ideal_ for audio quality.

“ _Oooooh,_ he hasn’t gotten back yet,” Antigone fretted by the front window overlooking the town square. Difficult to see very far, even now. How could snowflakes be quite so _big?_ Surely at some point it would simply turn to hail. Antigone despaired at the thought. “He must be out frozen in a snowbank somewhere. Dead. Well, suppose it makes his funeral neat enough, though – “

“Naw. ‘s not that bad yet. He’ll probably be back in a minute.”

Although the weather forecast hadn’t been _complete,_ even a total idiot could foresee that they would be trapped inside their small funeral home for some days. Georgie’s spaniel, Timmy, had taken to sniffing out all the mouseholes in the front shop – but, given the lack of squeaks of mortal terror, clearly found no mice hiding inside. With no business and no clear things to _do,_ Antigone had opted to refine her scented embalming fluids: a task that required asking, threatening, and eventually _begging_ Rudyard to go to the local café and pick up a few herbs for her to experiment with.

She was planning on putting together a summertime concoction. After all, summer funerals – historically speaking – smelled the worst.

At least. Funn Funerals’ did. Chapman’s probably smelled like roses and unicorn tears, knowing him. Whatever a rainbow smelled like.

“It’s been at least – it’s been a _while,_ Georgie,” Antigone continued. “While I imagine our rations will carry on a little bit longer without him – a definite positive – if he doesn’t come back with those _smells,_ I’m going to be at a loss for things to do, I’m going to go completely _mad!”_

“Calm down, Antigone. Seriously, it’s a light dusting at _most._ He’s got another twenty, thirty minutes before it’ll be up to his knees.”

A beat passed between them. Whether Antigone’s concern lied mostly for her brother’s life or for the scents he inevitably carried, she didn’t clarify. They both stared up at the sky, heavy with snow, full near to bursting with it. Antigone figured that Georgie had seen things like this before, but this simply didn’t _happen_ in Piffling Vale. “Georgie,” Antigone asked, “Do you think the sky’ll cave in?”

Georgie had opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by another voice in the room. For Timmy had made his way through all of the mouseholes in the front room, and had eventually fallen upon a strange new object hiding the corner shadows. It was rather tall by a spaniel’s standards but rather short by nearly everyone else’s, and seemed to be covered in layers and layers of overlapping, mismatching fabric. At the very, _very_ top, Timmy could see what looked to be a red and blue hat with a fuzzy little pom-pom sticking out of the top like a strange flag.

He would _very_ much like to bite that pom-pom.

Timmy let out a short growl and head-butted the object, only to be met with it stumbling backwards and letting out a grunt of sheer terror. Timmy tilted his head and let out a soft _arroo?_

Antigone and Georgie’s heads whipped around to face the object – which, to their trained human eyes, they could identify to be one Rudyard Funn, wrapped in nearly every item of clothing that he and Antigone had between them.

“ _Rudyard!”_ Antigone hissed at the same time as Georgie asked a befuddled, “ _Sir?”_

Rudyard Funn was not a tall man, though he had been gifted with somewhat broader shoulders than those of his sister. Along with being spared from Antigone’s fetish for formal gothic attire, Rudyard was not a hard man to identify. That was not the case that day. For Rudyard was wearing so many pairs of trousers, and so many shirts, overcoats, and what conspicuously looked like Antigone’s favorite wrap, that he roughly resembled a small ball of stitches and fabric in the corner of the room. And, as Timmy himself had noticed, his face was covered with as many cloth scraps (that, Timmy would later sadly notice, was his favorite bandanna) that he could find – as well as what looked like swimming goggles – was that a _potholder -_ and finally, at the top, the fateful red pom-pom. Overall, not a scrap of skin was showing from the man. His limbs stuck out in odd angles, unable to return to a resting position.

“You haven’t _bloody gone yet?”_

Rudyard let out a strangled grunt of indetermination.

“Well, what the hell have you been doing, just _standing there – “_

Rudyard let out a strangled grunt of indignation.

“Georgie or I could’ve been to the café and back a dozen times by now – “

Rudyard let out a strangled grunt of incredulation.

“ _JUST GO THEN!”_

Rudyard went quiet.

Eventually, Georgie was the one to move forward and investigate. “I don’t think he can see very well. Those goggles are tinted.” She took him by one of his arms and Rudyard obediently toddled forward, arms awkwardly held out to the sides. Rudyard himself felt suspiciously hot under Georgie’s fingers – how long had he been standing in the corner, exactly? He didn’t _think_ he was about to overheat, though what a lovely excuse not to run errands. “Are you sure you wanna go out there like this, boss? You’ll have to hurry if you want to get back before we’re snowed in.”

Behind his goggles, Rudyard’s eyes flashed over to Antigone fearfully. His tall crony of a sister ( _he could think that and she had no way of slapping him! How delightful)_ had crossed her arms at him, daring him to say otherwise.

Rudyard flapped his arms up and down in his thick winter gear, indicating that he was ready for anything.

With Georgie’s assistance, he shuffled his way over to the front door. “You think you can make the trip in twenty minutes?” Georgie asked him. She pulled open the door with a grunt. Flurries swirled their way into the funeral home, some sticking directly on the outermost layer of Rudyard’s get-up. “If not, I dunno if we’ll get the door open to let you back in. No pressure, though.”

Rudyard tried his best to indicate a positive sentiment about the matter, but instead only succeeded in bowing so far forward that he nearly toppled over entirely. He took one step out the door before he felt long fingers brush against his shoulder. Antigone’s hand was on his upper arm, and Rudyard pivoted himself to look back in the slightly fearful eyes of his dear twin sister.

“Rudyard, if you don’t make it back.” Antigone paused in thought. “You’ve certainly been … a brother.”

Didn’t _that_ warm the cockles of his heart. Rudyard snorted behind his mask and continued to the outside proper. He heard the front door of Funn Funerals shut and lock behind him, leaving Rudyard feeling rather like a spaceman investigating the moon for the first time.

It wasn’t an unfair comparison, Rudyard considered. He was moving in long, staggering movements, and for the first time in a very long time, Piffling Vale was completely quiet outside. No chattering townfolk, nobody selling their wares, no shriek of children terrified of the Funn twins. Up and beyond, Rudyard could see the soft white flakes shedding from a blanketed grey sky. They fell, down and down, until they settled on every available surface in the square. Rudyard’s boots crunched on the snow below him. Perhaps it was his make-do spacesuit, or the limited visibility, or the sense of being all utterly alone – but Rudyard figured it was the closest he would ever get to the beauties of the cosmos.

Until his boot ( _technically,_ Antigone’s boot, which was why his feet felt far too small in it even wearing six pairs of socks) caught on the uneven stones in the village square. Rudyard pitched forward onto the snow-covered grass. While he heartily cursed and grunted behind his gear, the abundance of cloth he wore meant that the only audible noise was a loud _boof!_ of buffeted fabric.

He was three feet from the front door of Funn Funerals. Only two hundred to go.


	2. Snowed In

Frustratingly enough, the snow had managed to cling to every available surface of Rudyard by the time he reached the illustrious café of Mr. Dickerson. He had no concept of how long he had taken – perhaps snow had swallowed up Funn Funerals, at that point, and he was the last remaining heir to the Funn name. Not that there was anything to _inherit_ besides a small mountain of death and debt … but as it was. The snow had started to gather around his shins.

He hoped he was in the right place. Snow had completely covered the sign – normally, the sign would simply read CAFÉ in strong, severe, gigantic lettering just above the door. For that reason (and to distinguish it not only from Chapman’s Café, but also various patisseries and delis and other eateries that all shared similar, untrustworthy French names), most had taken to calling it the Tall Café. Or, rather, the TALL café.

He fumbled with thick-fingered gloves at the door before scraping it open. It _creaked_ and a bell dinged from somewhere over him. At the very least, the inside of the café was warm.

A little too warm. Christ, did he need to wear _quite_ so many layers? He felt like he was about to suffocate. Yes, it was going to be a quick nip in and out, but he could at least get a minute of blessed relief.

Both from the exertion of the walk and the dozen layers that he had on, Rudyard found that he was quickly starting to sweat through his clothing. “ _Mmrph!”_ He called out for Dickerson, reaching for the outermost layer of clothing – one of Antigone’s funeral veils. _“Mmrph Mrrphmnn!”_

The next was the balaclava. Brilliantly good at holding a head together, if the family so _insisted_ on open casket. “ _Mmrtrr Mrrkrnn!”_

Rudyard stumbled further into the empty café, shedding gloves, coats, scarves, and the occasional sock as he went. The café itself was dim in the afternoon light, though Rudyard couldn’t be sure that wasn’t from the snow outside – it had started to stick to the long, floor-to-ceiling glass panes that lined the front of the café. A pleasant enough place for villagers to sit and watch the square go by. Some had actually taken to sitting there and _watch_ mobs follow Rudyard, instead of engaging themselves. The view was nearly the same and without all the _mess._

He yanked some Velcro earmuffs that had fallen around his face, finally exposing his mouth to the world. “ _Mister Dickerson!”_ Rudyard called after a vicious inhale. How had this scarf gotten wrapped about his _head?_ He wrestled with it as he stumbled forward, letting out grunts of effort as he tousled with it. “ _Mister Dickerson,_ now see here, I haven’t the time to stick around, now where are the _scents –_ “

In his ministrations, Rudyard managed to run into one of several metal circular café tables that dotted the front room. It struck him right in the pelvis and Rudyard doubled over it. His face pressed against cold steel. Oh, how pretty. All the tables had flower designs. Clever. Spring-y. Made one in the mood for a croissant.

There was no answer, at least. Rudyard squinted over the front counter. Just behind it was a stove, a pantry, a fridge – bourgeoise kitchen things – a swinging door to the freezer, and stairs that likely led to Mr. Dickerson’s upstairs home.

“Have you closed the café already?” Rudyard asked to himself in amazement. “My god. The lack of moxie these days. It stunts the soul. Are you going to let a simple _snowstorm – “_

Behind him, a particularly vicious gust of snow and wind slammed the front door shut, loud enough that it dislodged some of the snow up on the roof. Rudyard jumped a mile and turned towards the front door, chest heaving in shock. _Hell._ The snow was high, wasn’t it? And he wasn’t a very tall man, and you couldn’t exactly _swim_ in snow, not that Rudyard could swim at all.

Okay. _Perhaps_ he ought to be quick about it. “M – Mister Dickerson,” he called out again, sliding behind the counter. Perhaps there was a helpful lunch sack labeled ‘Antigone’ on it filled with extract of weevils or whatever other good scents there were. He ducked below the counter to search through it, _just_ to make sure that these brown paper bags weren’t precisely what he was looking for.

No. That was flour. And that was sugar … no, salt. Bleh. And that was brown salt … no, sugar. Delightful.

Below his notice, the door to the bathroom in TALL Café opened and shut. Focused on his task, Rudyard kept searching for his errand, so he could – as quickly as possible – replace all of his shed clothing and get well enough _home._ Then he had several days holed up with Antigone and Georgie awaiting him – not that that was _so_ different than the usual.

“Mr. Dickerson?” A haunting voice called from the other side of the counter. Rudyard sprang to his feet so quickly that he got woozy, only to be confronted by the leering, demonic face of one Eric Chapman.

Frankly, his response was as instinctual as breathing.

“ _Chapman!”_

“Oh, thank god, you’re not nude. You’re – long johns? Okay,” Eric stumbled out. He had pressed one hand to his face as if to shield Rudyard’s dignity. In indignation – _I’m fully clothed, Chapman, no need to be a prude about things –_ Rudyard stuck his fists on his hips and puffed his chest out somewhat.

Yes, _perhaps_ he hadn’t exactly planned on taking everything off aside from the long thermal underwear, but … on the _other_ hand, it was terribly hard to remember exactly how many layers he had put on, and he supposed he could only be grateful that the thermal underwear required just a bit more _effort_ to remove. Still. No need to alert Chapman of such things.

Chapman himself was dressed as if he sensibly planned to go outside in cold weather. He seemed to be wearing thick blue trousers along with a matching anorak. The fur lining the hood was an eerie match to his own golden hair. The madman probably tore out his own hair to make it, Rudyard presumed bitterly, while he leaned against the counter and pretended like he owned the place.

“Are you … okay?”

 _That_ was never a good question to be asked, as opposed to the ever-more-appropriate ‘what are you doing here’. Rudyard looked down at the counter to formulate an answer to _that_ tough philosophical question, before he heard a soft bubble of a chuckle from the man in front of him.

“It’s just that – well, your hair’s all askew and you’ve got quite a bit of white powder under your nose. I’m not saying it wouldn’t explain some things, really, but _stealing_ – “

Rudyard immediately and fiercely rubbed underneath his nose until he was sure it was both free of white powder and burning red from irritation. He fixed his hair next – the famous Rudyard bowl cut, the pride of Piffling and the despair of the only barbershop in town. He’d done it himself for years, and had only recently turned over the bowl to Madeline – she was rather better at getting the back even, anyway. “I’m not stealing _,_ how dare you,” he scowled at the man. “I am picking up an order from Mr. Dickerson.” A pause. “Antigone’s working on her embalming fluid mixtures.”

“Oh. Well, apologies for assuming – you know what they say about donkeys and assumptions. I’m actually dropping off some petrol for him, in case his power goes out and he needs to power his generator.” There, Chapman jerked his thumb towards the corner. Rudyard saw that there had been signs of Chapman there – a book, a thermos, he had brought his own _torch_ for _light._ Good lord. “But he hasn’t been out in the front for a while.” His rose-colored lips drew into a frown. “I hope everything’s alright.”

Rudyard debated the possibility that he had actually just stopped Chapman at the beginning of an arson attempt, and decided against it. “How long have you been here?”

“Oh, you know.” A beat passed. “Perhaps twenty minutes?”

“Just … sitting.”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on the outside, you know. I thought I’d give him ten more minutes before I headed out, I wanted to see if he wanted to have a chat before we all got snowed in for days – say, are you lot all alright over at Funn Funerals? I know you’re … “ There, Chapman drew off, clearly wanting Rudyard to fill in the rest for him. He wasn’t going to give him the dignity.

“We’re _what,_ exactly? Skint? Deprived? Barely keeping the lights on? I’ll have you know that we are _perfectly_ prepared for the snowstorm, and _in fact,_ we’ll far better than you in your – your _fortress of solitude!”_

What Rudyard had predicted to be a perfectly cutting jab only made Eric lean back on his heels and smile. “I didn’t know you liked Superman.”

“Sup – _who?_ Is that meant to be your epithet?”

“No, there’s no way you don’t know – _Superman!_ Come on, Rudyard, flying through the air, it’s a bird, it’s a plane?” Chapman had clearly gone mad with delusions of grandeur. It got him to stop his ranting, regardless, and Rudyard only blinked at Chapman owlishly. _This is how I go. Murdered by a maniac in a snowy café._ “Ah, nevermind. I dressed as him a few times to visit sick children in hospital – one of them wrote me a few years after, said it was the most inspiring experience of their life.”

On second thought, it suddenly seemed to be _supremely_ in Rudyard’s best interest to get his order as quickly as possible and _go._ A quiet squeaking in his pocket broke him out of his frantic searching of the cupboards, and a furry head popped herself out of Rudyard’s breast pocket that he had haphazardly sewn into his long johns.

“ _Madeline!”_ Rudyard remarked with unfettered joy. He offered a hand to help Madeline wriggle her way out of the pocket, setting her on the counter. Chapman made a hesitantly displeased noise at the sight of a mouse sitting on a counter in the café, but Rudyard paid him precisely zero mind. Instead, he waited politely while Madeline fixed her ears. “I didn’t realize you had crawled in there.”

“Squeak.” (“ _My word, Rudyard, I was getting ready to suffocate in_ _your pocket_ _.”)_

“Sorry! Sorry. It just took some time to get everything on, you know. You’re not cold, are you? I think I could scrounge up a spare scarf for you if you need it.”

“Squeak.” (“ _No, no. All well and good for now. Just needed to stretch my limbs a bit.”)_

“Do you sew breast pockets on all of your shirts?” Both mouse and man swiveled their head to glare at Chapman who had decided to burst into the conversation. “For Madeline to ride around in?”

“Well, I’m hardly going to make her _walk,_ am I? She’s got tiny little mouse limbs! And she’s a _lady,_ besides.”

“Squeak.” (“ _You’re such a dear, Rudyard.”)_

That brought a small smile out of him as he watched Madeline scurry on the counter. Chapman’s unease with the rodentry did not seem to abate, which gave Rudyard no small amount of glee, before an idea came to him. “Madeline, while you’re in the mood for running about, could I ask you to sniff out for the order that Antigone placed so we can get _out_ of here?” There was a momentary squeak of agreement, and Rudyard stuck out his hand to help her from the counter to the floor.

Successful, Madeline scurried off out of sight.

Chapman was chewing the inside of his cheek. “You could just have her search for Mr. Dickerson?” He finally asked, somewhat weakly. “Rather than the order itself. Have you even paid for it yet?”

“Not the point. Why would I have a _mouse_ find the _cafeowner?_ He would fall into a _panic!”_ Rudyard looked down, seeing the same white powder had covered the front of his navy blue thermal underwear. He quickly set to brushing it off. “Rodents, in the café. Honestly, Chapman, use your head on occasion.”

“… _Right.”_ Chapman’s lips pursed out just as Rudyard looked up. They were pink and seemed well-taken care of, and good _Lord,_ Chapman’s cheeks still seemed a little tinged dark from the cold outside. Or – no, the man couldn’t be blushing. What reason did he have to blush? “Ah, Rudyard, don’t you think – um, I know – well, it’s cute, really, you pretending that you can understand the mouse – “

“The _mouse!_ The _mouse!?_ The mouse has a _name,_ Chapman – “

“That you can understand _Madeline,_ then, but you can’t pretend it’s not the least bit concerning that she travels with you nearly everywhere. To food, to – to health facilities, I mean, you’re not meant to have rats in a funeral parlor, either, they’ll eat through dead bodies just as quickly as they will sacks of flour, I remember the time I –”

“What, are you going to tell me that on top of everything else, you’re an expert in _rodent handling?”_

“Well, I.” Chapman’s mouth opened and closed. Rudyard could no longer hear Madeline scurrying around; doubtless she had found one of the many mouseholes in the café. He hoped she wasn’t dawdling around, making friends, though Madeline had never _really_ been chummy with other mice. Too much of a workaholic, that mouse was. “Not small ones, no.”

“Then I’ll ask you to leave this to the _professionals.”_

“Fair enough?” The roof above them shuddered for a moment as a pile of snow slid right on off it. It landed with a _thump_ on the square outside. Outside, in fact, the snow was starting to pile up. Rudyard cast a side-eye to Chapman. No doubt that he would have precisely _zero_ problems navigating his way through the snow like some sort of plucky Labrador Retriever. Rudyard had a vivid image of the white terror pulling him down like quicksand. _Madeline, Madeline, please hurry up._

He heard the door to the freezer room creak open slowly. In amazement, Chapman turned around to see the tiny mouse sticking her head from inside the previously-locked freezer door. Rudyard tilted his head to the side questioningly.

“Squeak.” ( _“There’s a dead man in here, Rudyard.”)_

“There’s a what?”

“Squeak-squeak.” (“ _I checked for a pulse. Do you think I ought to call Dr. Edgeware?”)_

“What? _No!_ Don’t do that, if he comes and revives him, that sort of defeats the entire purpose, doesn’t it? Let me see, let me see!” Madeline scurried back inside the walk-in freezer, letting the door swing shut behind her. Excited, Rudyard went in after her. The door didn’t swing shut behind _him,_ because Chapman caught it before he could.

The walk-in freezer was much less ominous than the scary stories that Antigone had told him as a child led him to believe. There were no shadowy corners, no gnarly meat hooks extending from ceiling, no suspicious trails of blood leading to a convenient meat grinder. In fact, it all seemed rather clean, all things considered. Neatly labeled bags rested on the shelves, and Rudyard noted with pleasure that Mr. Dickerson’s mouse traps were quite _humane._ Still. He wasn’t going to encourage Madeline to get close to them anyway.

There was the much more troubling matter of the blue-tinged body of Mr. Dickerson lying on the floor, but _really,_ he wasn’t sure why he’d been so scared of walk-in freezers as a child!

“Oh my God, Mr. Dickerson!” Chapman shouted, pushing Rudyard to the side to get to him.

Oh, _no._ He wasn’t going to let Chapman get this one. “ _No no no,_ Chapman,” Rudyard lectured. Chapman had rushed over and fallen to his knees next to Mr. Dickerson. _Kiss-up._ “It’s finders keepers, now, don’t be a sore loser. _I_ saw the body first, _I_ get to do the funeral. All the flattering in the world won’t sway a dead man.” Ideally speaking.

Chapman picked up the man’s wrist. It didn’t want to come. In fact, the entire body remained stiff as a board with frozen whiskers on the floor of the freezer. Chapman’s face tilted downward, fluffy lion’s hair parka going down to cover his equally fluffy lion’s hair curls. “Godspeed, Mr. Dickerson,” he murmured mournfully. Rudyard watched in strange stupefaction as Chapman _removed_ his parka and placed it _over_ the body. What, did he think the corpse was going to get _cold?_

“That’s not a proper body bag. Now, in a _pinch,_ you can use a poncho as a functioning body bag, but – look at him! His feet are sticking out. You call yourself an undertak – “

“Do you have an _ounce_ of humanity in your body?” Chapman suddenly accused, face bolting up to look at him. He rose to his full height again, and damn it, Rudyard couldn’t even say that the parka had mussed up his outfit. He was wearing a thick turtleneck, black that seemed _far_ too form-fitting to provide any amount of thermal insulation. Then again, Rudyard felt his long johns hugged his hips perhaps a bit too much and he felt positively _cozy._

Granted, they wouldn’t provide him any physical protection from being torn apart by Chapman. Chapman looked _livid_ as he advanced upon him, and wow, those were quite big muscles in his elbow-to-shoulder area, weren’t they? That was terrifying. Did Chapman work out? Have an exercise routine? He heard something about him offering classes there. Not really his cup of tea, but _still._ “Seriously, you find a dead body of a man on the floor that you’ve probably been, at _least,_ aware of your entire life, and you still want to fluster on about _funerals –”_

“It is – it is – I mean, it is what we _do,”_ Rudyard stammered out. He kept moving backwards towards the door. Something was tugging on the calf of his long johns, and he looked down to see Madeline scurrying up his leg, up his waist, and tucking herself back into his pocket. _Good! Save yourself from this rampaging beast._ “A-a-and, I mean, I’m certain we could work out some agreement – “

The handle of the freezer door hit his back and Rudyard yelped in shock. That did enough to momentarily confuse Chapman, long enough for Rudyard to yank the door open and fling himself through it. Rudyard landed on his hands and knees, his bones creaking dangerously. It was _time to crawl away._

“Madeline Madeline Madeline _lock the door lock the door lock the door -- !”_

“Squeak!” ( _“The walk-in doesn’t lock from the outside, Rudyard, this is hardly an Agatha Christie novel.”)_

And just like that, the freezer door flung open. There, with tendrils of frost curling behind him, was a highly befuddled Eric Chapman. Rudyard did an awkward scrambling crab-walk backwards. _Damn the order, if I can just get through the front door, I can probably sprint back to Funn Funerals before I become the town square’s newest icicle statue._ _Or murder victim._

“Rudyard, what are you _doing?”_ Rudyard was, in fact, pulling himself to his feet. He could hardly crab-walk the entire way back to his home. “I’m not going to – god, you look like some sort of cornered animal!”

He responded to such an accusation with a mixture of a growl and a hiss. Although Rudyard had successfully sprung to the front door, a strong hand with manicured nails suddenly pressed down upon it before he could yank it open. Chapman was holding the front door shut just a few inches above his head.

“Squeak.” (“ _Just as well, you’d freeze out there in an instant and I wager I wouldn’t do much better.”)_

“Rudyard,” Chapman offered patiently. “D’you think I’m going to hurt you or something?”

“What? _No,_ don’t be absurd.” A beat paused between them. Christ, he did _not_ like the way that Chapman’s hand was affixed a foot above his head. He would have to slide past Chapman, left or right, in order to flee from him. Was there a back exit, perhaps? “I mean, I didn’t think you were going to.” Another beat. Chapman, usually so keen to fill the space with useless _pratter,_ was looking at him with wide concerned blue eyes. Rudyard let out an aggrieved sigh. “Well, be on the wrong side of an angry mob one-too-many times and you learn to start running when people start coming at you.”

Those wide concerned blue eyes above him turned utterly – _no._ No, Rudyard was not going to stand for _that,_ not one bit. He would not abide _pity._

“Besides!” Rudyard finally pushed past Chapman. The fuzzy warmth of his shoulder brushed along Chapman’s turtleneck – good _god,_ but did that look cozy. “This all seems _quite_ convenient for you. You’re _miraculously_ here, reading your – reading your book, with a dead body in the freezer, waiting for poor innocent _Rudyard Funn_ to come in so you can wreak your – “

Chapman’s hand was still on the door. It slid off as he chuckled, turning around to face Rudyard. He leaned against the glass-planed door. There was a teasing smile on his face, the tension from before slowly draining from his body. “I don’t know if anyone would ever call _you_ innocent, Rudyard.”

“Squeak.” (“ _He’s got a point, you know.”_ )

“No. Shut up.” Rudyard directed towards his pocket-mouse, and then to Chapman. “You shut up.”

“Besides, I thought we already established a few seasons ago – god, was that really in the summer already? How time flies – that I haven’t in my _life_ killed anyone … in Piffling Vale.”

Yes, although Rudyard would be the first to sing a tune if Chapman had gone out and wrenched someone’s mortal soul from their body, Chapman had made it clear that would be counter-productive for business. Besides, Rudyard didn’t like to fuss with the bodies much himself. Difficult to determine a cause of death if there wasn’t anything obvious, like a stab wound or sandwich poster sign crushing them flat. He couldn’t investigate Chapman’s potential murdering habits even if he _wanted_ to.

“ _And,_ for the record, so long as he doesn’t have anything about it in his will – you’re free to do the funeral, if you’d like. Honestly, I didn’t even know him that well, if you want the truth. I thought t was the most out-of-the-blue thing when he named the café in my honor.”

“He did _what -?”_ Rudyard thought back. “You can’t possibly mean, the TALL café – “

Chapman shot him a radiant smile. “Yeah! It was the first words we ever said to one another. He was 6’1”, you know, shorter than me by a few inches, and when I saw him, the first thing he ever said to me was – “ There, Chapman flicked a finger-gun in Rudyard’s direction. “ _’Tall’._ So, of course, I said the same thing back to him. ‘Tall’!’ It’s sort of a thing, tall people do to one another, you wouldn’t understand.”

Dig at his height aside, Rudyard simply glowered at him. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well.” Chapman stuffed his hands in his pockets and gave him a shrug of his shoulders. The moronic grin was still on his face, the one that showed quite a bit of his _just_ -off-white teeth. “Like I said, you wouldn’t understand, being … “

“ _Yes yes yes,_ I _got_ it. Well, we’ll just have to take a look at his will, like I said.” And, if portions of the will were suspiciously altered in something similar to Rudyard’s or Madeline’s handwriting, that was _his_ business. “I don’t _think_ he’s got any relatives on the island.” Rudyard wracked his brain. “No. His daughter moved for, I don’t know. _Out there.”_ As far as Rudyard was concerned, everywhere outside of Piffling Vale was one homogeneous, slightly gray mass. “He’s alone.”

“Oh. Right, right. Just … just like me, then.”

This was _not_ the time to allow Chapman to mope about, frankly, the only thing that Rudyard particularly _liked_ about him: the fact that there was only one Chapman running around. How would he survive if Rudyard was a _twin?_ “ _Exactly._ Now, there’s the issue of the _body_ – “

“In the freezer, ought to be fine. Wait, hang on a tick.” Chapman pressed his thumb against his cheek thoughtfully. “When did Antigone place that order? Because, given the progression of rigor mortis on the body, I’d say he’s been dead at _least_ twelve hours. Who did Antigone talk to on the phone?”

“ _Tch – Squeak!”_ (“ _A mystery begins!”)_

Rudyard waved both Chapman and the single-minded mouse off. “ _Please,_ Antigone didn’t _speak_ to anyone. She picked up the phone, dialed the number for the TALL café, said her order, and hung up. She doesn’t enjoy that level with intimacy with strangers.” Inside his pocket, Rudyard felt the mouse give a sigh of disappointment and make herself comfortable. Chapman let out a scoff of disbelief. “I hardly think that this is any cause for homicidal concern. Older, in poor health – “

“You know, that might be way you don’t always get your orders in.” Chapman snapped his fingers in realization. “Not the causes of premature death business, but you not _actually_ speaking to the people you order from. I mean, you all were complaining that your orders weren’t going through for other vendors–“

“Yes, because you _stole_ them, Chapman – “

“I _didn’t --_!” He immediately cut themselves off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not worth arguing with you. I’m just saying you ought to consider it. Now, I ought to go back before this entire business becomes unmanageable. Give my love to Georgie and Antigone.” His fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the door once more. Presumably, he thought himself impervious to both the cold _and_ death, as he would have to make the quick jaunt over the town square back to his home.

Then again, that wasn’t so much a surprise, was it.

Chapman gave a push forward. The door, in response, gave a quick budge that was quickly buffeted by the snow outside. The pile that had gathered outside the door spilled in somewhat, but the door budged no more than a half inch. His perfect lips turned into a concerned frown, and Rudyard watched as Chapman put more of his weight against the shove. Oh. Right, right, he could seem muscles flexing inside his turtleneck. How odd. Did his do that? He didn’t think his did that.

A full inch, but no more. Rudyard could’ve sworn that, rather than budge an inch further, he heard the wood start to splinter. _That_ would be no good – and there was quite a bit of snow outside, wasn’t there? Coming in thicker by the second. Oh _no._

Chapman took a step back from the door and stuck his hands in his front pockets. He examined it with a wary eye, but letting out a loud whistle of amazement.

The full realization didn’t quite strike Rudyard for the moment, but instead he was seized with the opportunity to potential get one over on Chapman. _Granted,_ he didn’t properly think that he could beat Chapman in a contest of brawn, but perhaps Chapman had loosened the door somewhat for him like a pickle jar lid. Rudyard accordingly approached the door, cast one withering glance at his competitor, and threw himself bodily at the door.

His shoulder struck it hard, leaving a bruise that felt like it went down to the very bone. The _thunk!_ of it made Chapman wince behind him. Gravity soon kicked in and Rudyard fell down to the floor in a heap. The door hadn’t budged more than an inch, though slid entirely shut when Rudyard reached for the doorknob to help himself up. Now it seemed like they were both _actually_ sealed in this place.

“Rudyard, are you alright?” Chapman asked, going over to him and helping him up by his elbow. Rudyard responded only by a soft grunt of pain. “Why don’t you go have a sit?”

For the first time, Rudyard assented and went over to one of the chairs. He sat down in his long johns, staring at the door to freedom. The door was quickly becoming a more competent nemesis than Chapman was. “Oh, the _snow._ We spent too much time _arguing.”_ Chapman’s voice was somber. “That door won’t be opening anytime soon. Hang on, I’ll try to ring … someone on the phone.”

There was a pause while Rudyard watched the door with wounded pride. _Damnable thing, made of wood, I hope you get rot, you think you’re so sturdy, made of wood, well I’m made of sinew and muscle and – soft tissue, presumably._ He let out a noise of frightened shock when a pile of snow slid from the roof, landing directly outside the front door and making their escape even more difficult. _I take it back. Don’t do that again._ Meanwhile, a dozen emotions passed over Chapman’s face, finally settling on the grim certainty of a man who thought he would die alone. “Do you mind if I ring Funn Funerals?”

That was probably their best chance. At least, they were the ones most likely to actually _do_ something. Rudyard waved his consent and Chapman went to go dial on the phone. Madeline scampered over to sit on the table, and Rudyard felt a tiny rodent hand on his index finger.

“Squeak.” (“ _Rudyard, this is no time to be angry at the door.”)_

“The door started it.”

“Squeak.” ( _“That might very well be, but you’re not a child. There are bigger things at risk.”)_ Behind them, Chapman let out a small huff of both surprise and frustration. He tapped the numbers with more intensity.

“But the _alternative_ is that I’m stuck in here with – “ Rudyard cast a furtive glance to the man who had wound the telephone cord around his arm, and was staring into the receiver with furrowed brows. His next word was a whisper: “ _Chapman.”_

“Squeak.” ( _“If that’s the case, you know I’ll defend you to the death, Rudyard.”)_

For the life of him, Rudyard couldn’t tell if his friend was being earnest or gently teasing. Still, he nevertheless raised his thumb and patted Madeline on the top of the head gently. Madeline flicked her ears in a way that indicated fondness before scampering off. Chapman snapped the phone back into its holder and sighed. “Seems like the phone lines are down. Probably won’t be back up until morning _at the_ _earli_ _est.”_

Chapman and Rudyard shared gazes for a moment. Rudyard could feel the cold seep in through his long johns, and … well, it was impossible to guess what was going on through Chapman’s mind. Nefarious plots, he could only presume. Well, in the most _optimistic_ sense possible, at least trapping Chapman in a café would put a pin in his relentless scheming.

“Guess it’s just you and I, then.”

“And the dead man in the freezer.”

Although Rudyard didn’t find that as a joke, Chapman’s lips quirked to the side. “Right.”

Silence swelled like a crescendo between them, and Rudyard found himself breaking eye contact to stare at the table. He wouldn’t describe himself as a _quiet_ person, but this was quite the awful situation to get used to. This café could very well be his grave, should he make the wrong step. Did cold seep in through the walls? Ought he be more concerned about the building’s insulation? “Aren’t you _cold,_ Rudyard? You’re in your thermal underwear. You want to put some of your additional coats on? I think I see a – god, are those _drapes?_ You wore drapes here?”

“I’m _fine.”_ Actually, he wasn’t. He still felt rather chilly. Rudyard stood from his chair and picked among his discarded materials. Scads of gloves and socks and scarves, and he soon found … he supposed a windbreaker was better than nothing. There were some thicker coats in the pile, but they were still caked with snow from outside. Perhaps if he hadn’t fallen _quite_ so often on the walk over. Feeling rather like Winnie the Pooh, Rudyard threw the windbreaker on and turned around to face Chapman.

Chapman’s face was awfully screwed up in an attempt to stop himself from laughing. “ _God,”_ he teased, shaking his head. “God, _you.”_

“What is _that_ meant to mean?”

“It _means_ that you’re the only man I could conceivably see myself in this situation with.”

Well, Rudyard couldn’t determine that to be a compliment or an insult. He erred on the sign of caution. “What does that say about you, then?”

“That I just don’t see what Piffling Vale has against you.”

Oh. _Oh._ Rudyard cleared his throat and stared down at the table. Kindness. Fondness, even, _warmth._ How on Earth could Chapman manage such unerring talents? Certainly there was a tank in the human body, filled to the brim with good feeling, and to spare a kind word was to slowly diminish it. Chapman’s tank must’ve been the size of a football field. Rudyard felt that his wouldn’t fill a thimble.


	3. A Truce

He hadn’t realized how the silence stretched between them. Chapman eventually tapped his fingers against his table. “Right! Well, no reason for us to go hungry, then, is it? I’ll see what he’s got behind the counter that I can cook up for us.

Rudyard’s very nature made him want to argue, but – well, he _had_ smelled the most delicious scents coming from Chapman’s general direction before. And his stomach was growling in protest. Eventually,Rudyard decided to frame it as an altruistic motion: “Only if you make a smaller portion for Madeline,” he remarked defensively, folding his hands on the table.

And, to his credit, Chapman didn’t say a word otherwise about cooking an additional bit of food for a mouse. He began to clatter pots and pans together, occasionally dipping back into the pantry or the makeshift morgue for an ingredient or two. Rudyard didn’t bother asking Chapman what he was making – he doubted he would know. Unless it involved something between two slices of bread, Rudyard was not an expert.

He turned instead to face the large windows outside with the lingering aroma of cooking meat and simmering squash thick in his nostrils. The snowstorm didn’t seem to be abating at all, and indeed, Rudyard couldn’t even see the town square, now. It lay in such thick sheets that, for all the world was concerned, there was absolutely nothing out there at all. No Funn Funerals, no Piffling Vale, no … Earth. Just he and Chapman, stuck in what was surely to be their icy tomb. Rudyard let his hand rest on his cheek, his expression morose. As places to go went – well, out of all the times Rudyard had feared for his life over the years, this wasn’t the most _unpleasant_ place. Could have been much better, however. At least Funn Funerals would do one funeral this year.

“Don’t you think it’s pretty, old sport?” Chapman asked him out of nowhere, breaking Rudyard out of his morbid daydreams. He chuckled as if he made a joke that both of them had understood. “The snow, I mean. I’ve always thought it made things so quiet. Which can be both good and bad, you know, I once worked a search-and-rescue team in the Himalayas and –”

“No. It’s nature’s own preservation process. Have the misfortune to get buried in out there and you’ll practically be dead-and-buried for millennia. That was how it worked with the cavemen.” At least, Rudyard supposed that was how that worked with the cavemen. He had read a book once – or perhaps it had been a pamphlet – or perhaps an advert on the radio? That they’d once found a frozen-over caveman who was so perfectly well preserved, it could’ve been your neighbor Jerry. While Antigone had hummed for a moment over the majesty of nature, Rudyard instead had fumed – how dare _nature,_ of all people, try to muscle in on the funeral trade.

Chapman made a noise that might’ve been amusement and might’ve been irritation, but otherwise decided continued conversation was not the best strategy. Instead _,_ Rudyard heard the distinctive _crack_ of a glass bottle opening. Rudyard turned in his chair and raised an eyebrow: Chapman was holding a bottle of gin. His face was nothing short of mortified and the _positive_ sensation Rudyard held in his chest was not all smugness at embarrassing him. “Thought I might make a gin and tonic,” he offered quietly, “Could I interest you in a cocktail, Rudyard? I can make it a virgin.”

“How dare you. No, a milk will be sufficient. You can only live above a mortuary so long before the idea of anything even distantly related to alcohol will make you ill.”

“Fair enough. Can’t say it’s ever bothered me much, but I suppose I never spent my childhood living above a pile of bodies. _Well – “_ The dark look that Rudyard gave Chapman, ready to only half-tangentially go off, made the tall blond man relent. Instead, Chapman obediently placed a mug of warm milk in front of him, while something that smelled faintly of embalming fluid was clutched in his own hand.

Eurgh.

After Rudyard’s constant rebukes, Chapman didn’t seem content on providing any more conversation. Rudyard turned his gaze away from the wintry tundra outdoors and instead focused on the table. Right, he had to do something practical. _Helpful._ Even if they were going to die in there, Rudyard wasn’t going to drive himself mad if he spent his last hours simply sitting.

He reached for the condiments, the napkins, and the metal ornaments on the table. Rudyard began to fidget with them together, which captured his attention for some time. He couldn’t say how much, exactly, except for the darkening of the sky outside. The cloudy grey cover (how deceptively warm it looked, like thick cotton wool) started gradually to turn orange, and red, and then … _void._ Still, the snow came.

Whatever Chapman was cooking, it was apparently incredibly elaborate. Rudyard was focused on his current activity, though he was dimly aware of the additional noises coming from the kitchen every now and then. He honestly forgot most of his anger until a dish was clattered down in front of him – a leg of lamb and some squash stew, still bubbling in its bowl. Rudyard let out a soft noise at the noise before looking up at Chapman.

There was something set and stern about his face, but – no, it didn’t quite reach his eyes, did it? Behind Chapman’s bright blue eyes was something timid. “Now, look here, Rudyard,” Chapman started sternly. “I know you’re not the most sociable chap, and – well, as it happens, not my biggest fan, but I promise you this night is going to go by a lot more quickly if …” He trailed off, his eyes falling down on Rudyard’s project on the table. “Um.”

Out of toothpicks, napkins, and packets of jam, Rudyard had constructed a serviceable bed. Granted, at that size, it could only be suitable for a mouse.

“I’m hardly going to make her sleep in a mousehole in a stranger’s home, Chapman. Who knows what sort of ruffians live there.”

The sternness vanished off Chapman’s face entirely, replaced only by a disbelieving smile. “And she’s a lady,” he pointed out, to which Rudyard gave a nod of agreement. “Well, I have prepared a meal for her. Should we –”

And just like that, the already dim lighting of the front room flickered and vanished entirely. The time on the stove blinked off, the hum of the freezer silenced, and suddenly the only illumination was from the moon striking out the snowbanks outside.

He found that his eyes adjusted rather quickly, though that didn’t help matters much. Chapman was looking at him, too. “At least dinner’s made already?” He queried in a desperate attempt to be optimistic. “We should eat it fast, though, I can’t imagine that it’ll be long before it starts to get colder in here.”

Colder indeed. Rudyard was suddenly very aware that he was only clad in his long johns and a windbreaker. He looked down at all his discarded belongings (it would be a stretch to call all of them _clothes,_ really) and hesitated, before deciding against it. It hadn’t exactly been _warm_ in the cafe before, and they’d been sitting on a linoleum floor. No, he would simply have to deal with the cold when it came to it.

“Hang on, I’ve got a torch somewhere. Survival kit, you know, always prepared during times like this.” Chapman disappeared off towards his belongings, smartly stored in the corner where Rudyard had first seen him. In the same moment, Rudyard saw something scurrying across the floor and up his trouser leg.

“ _Squeak.”_ (“Rudyard, you’ve made this bed for me? How kind of you. I would’ve been just fine in a mousehole somewhere.”)

“I won’t hear of it, Madeline. Not when I can make a bed myself. It isn’t exactly like I’m short on time. Here, let me move it off the table – where would you like to sleep tonight?”

“ _Squeak.”_ (“Oh, could you put it behind the sugar bags in the lower shelf? It’ll be much easier to conserve warmth in there, I think, it’ll be quite cozy.”)

Accordingly, Rudyard moved the bed. As he passed the main counter, he saw a smaller plate – one meant for scones, he presumed – with a smaller portion of squash stew and lamb on it. That was deposited near her bed. He poured her a small cap’s worth of red wine and a thimble’s worth of water. “Would you like anything sweet in it? Almost certain I saw a cake of something or other somewhere. I do hate the idea of you eating in the dark – maybe a match?”

“ _Squeak.”_ (“No _fuss,_ now, Rudyard. This is all perfectly lovely, and I’ll be content here tonight. Shout if you need me. Go and enjoy your own dinner before the cold sets in, won’t you?”)

“Too right. Sweet dreams, Madeline.” As Rudyard straightened his back, he saw that Chapman had prepared a table for the both of them. His torch was in the middle, shining a faint circular light on the top of the ceiling. It would provide some light, anyway. And Chapman had topped up both his gin and tonic and Rudyard’s milk.

His stomach rumbled appreciatively, to the point where Rudyard felt the need to express _gratitude._ Of all the bloody things. “Thank you for dinner,” he rumbled as he sat at the small circular table. Perhaps a few days ago, patrons would be clustered around these ones to scarf down scones and coffee. “It smells … well. To be expected from Eric bloody Chapman, honestly.”

It came out as fonder than he truly meant it. Chapman smiled at him, all teeth, before settling across the table. Rudyard suddenly felt jealous of him in his black turtleneck. Christ, he was almost willing to go and steal his parka from overtop the corpse. _Frigid_ in here and that parka was probably … well, in all honestly, frozen solid by then. “I may have dabbled in cooking here and there. Long time ago. Do you need anything else?”

Rudyard _wanted_ to find a problem with it. He wanted to dig his fork in and declare it woefully underseasoned, maybe overcooked, maybe a strange texture, maybe too much fat or too watery or too _something._ But as he brought up the squash stew to his lips, Rudyard found that it was perfect in every little irritating way. “No. No, ah, no,” he continued, reaching for his milk. “It’s – right. You know how it is.”

“I could always use some constructive criticism on my culinary talents.”

“Black doesn’t suit you.”

That drew out an honest laugh from Chapman, pulling at the edge of his turtleneck. “Fair enough. Not much a fan of it myself. Prefer something brighter – Funns have the market on black clothing these days, anyway.”

“ ‘ _These_ days’,” Rudyard scoffed at him. “I’ll have you know my parents’ attire was much the same, and I presume their parents’ attire before them. It’s simply what undertakers _wear.”_

If that was a pointed barb at Chapman not being a true undertaker, he didn’t rise to the occasion. There were a thousand things he could point out at Rudyard being an untrue undertaker (that Rudyard had no formal licensing, really, somewhere near the top of the list), and Rudyard was grateful he didn’t have to have that argument tonight. Chapman chewed at his lamb thoughtfully. “What were they like? Your parents?” Why on Earth would Chapman be curious about _that?_

Instinctively, Rudyard wanted to tell him to pound sand. But … Chapman had been right. The night would pass quicker if they socialized at least a touch. Sitting in silence until they both froze to death simply wouldn’t do. Chapman took a sip of his gin and tonic, breaking eye contact. Rudyard broke into an answer. “Could be worse, all things considered.” A beat passed. “They didn’t like each other much. At all. Not in a fiery sort of way, just in a proper by-the-book sort of way. They had a business to run. Children to raise. That sort of thing.”

While he wasn’t sensitive about his parents (the entire town of Piffling Vale being aware of the situation oothed any troublesome feelings on the matter), he wasn’t keen on Chapman teasing him for it. Or bringing up what was likely to be his own stunning, perfect parents. Perhaps Chapman was literally the son of angels., or a saint, or pissed holy water as an infant or something.

“So you and Antigone took all the fire, then?” Chapman was smiling. There was a bit of lamb stuck in his teeth, and the sheer amount of _joy_ that shot through Rudyard about the slightest aberration in Chapman’s appearance was probably unhealthy.

“What?”

“In the Funn family. I mean, you two are the most passionate people I’ve met. About _everything,_ Christ alive. I can’t imagine _you_ marrying someone and only being lukewarm. A distant tepidness.”

“I live with my sister and I’m exclusively lukewarm towards her.”

“Oh, no you’re _not!_ I’ve _seen_ you care for her, Rudyard. You can’t go pulling that act with me.”

It wasn’t worth arguing about. Rudyard certainly wasn’t going to admit that his sister was important to him, or that he – god forbid – tolerated h er company. He let out a humph. “Yours, then? I imagine your birth was considered to be of worldwide interest.”

Chapman’s smile faltered. He brought up his napkin to wipe an invisible piece of food from his face – an act, Rudyard considered, to be one much more meant to obscure his mouth than proper hygiene. Suddenly feeling like he was witnessing an intimate moment, Rudyard furiously broke eye contact to stare at his meal.

“Oh, you know. In a sense. They were a touch too busy to be – I mean, I imagine that we’re alike in that way,” Chapman finally remarked airily, eyes fixed onto his plate. Rudyard couldn’t help but shake the sense that he’d said something _wrong._ “Except, you know, only child and all. I suppose it’s why they put me to learn instruments, languages, culture, all that. To fill the time.”

Rudyard’s parents in school hadn’t been overly keen on his extra-curriculars, and more-or-less left the boy to his whims. He hadn’t thought to be grateful for that, but now he was. Because perhaps _that_ parenting style had eventually prevented Rudyard from becoming a pompous blowhard like Eric Chapman.

Still. When Rudyard spoke, his voice was tinged with sympathy. “Any friends?”

The slightly crestfallen look was replaced with a plastered on smile. “What do you think?”

 _Of course_ Chapman had friends. _Of course_ Chapman probably attracted a little congregation wherever he went, and _of course_ people like him when he was just a small boy as well as a fully-grown man. Rudyard’s sympathy shrivelled up and died. Perhaps it simply wasn’t that easy to compare two lifetimes like they were two neat little columns.

“Ah, but you don’t want to hear me crying on your shoulder, I imagine,” Chapman quipped, sipping at his gin and tonic. Likely his third, by Rudyard’s estimate. There was a fluidity to his movements that hadn’t been there before – to his tongue, too, apparently. His gaze was over Rudyard’s shoulder, now, staring at the large front windows. “I know you said you didn’t like it, Rudyard, but … it really is rather pretty.”

Turning around, Rudyard witnessed the winter wonderland in all of its glory.

In the daytime, perhaps, it seemed more akin to an alien planet with the foggy gray skies and endless banks of snow. With the lights off, and the moonlight shining overhead …

It made the snow _sparkle,_ and something within Rudyard loosened. Just black skies and sparkling, sparkling snow for as far as the eye could see. It had stopped falling entirely, as if the heavens had finished belching its contents onto the earth. Somehow, everything seemed much more quiet, and for the first time that night – Rudyard was comfortable with it. They both simply watched the snow outside, finishing the rest of their meal, with not a word passed between them. And yet, the tension was out of Rudyard’s shoulders, the feeling that he would very well die there tonight slowly abating. It was _peaceful._

For a moment, he could just breathe. He finished the rest of his meal and warm milk and pushed the plate away. “That was lovely, Chapman,” Rudyard murmured intently. “Thank you.” His voice was soft, but had no trouble reaching Chapman’s ears.

“Anytime. Ought to let me cook for you more often – you all,” Chapman quickly corrected himself. “Could do a potluck or something.”

The scoff that Rudyard’s throat quickly prepared for him died in his throat. Honestly, right then, that didn’t seem the terror that it should have been in his mind. He could only blame his full stomach and rapidly-growing tiredness on that. Later, if Chapman were to bring it up again, he would guffaw at the very _notion._ Right then, though? He couldn’t stifle his yawn, shoving his palm against his eyesocket. Chapman chimed in with his own after a moment.

“I’ve been thinking about how we’re going to sleep together tonight.”

“Together?” Rudyard’s tone was incredulous.

“Well – if you _really_ think of a better solution, but it’s only going to get colder in here, Rudyard. Electricity’s only been out for an hour and it _must’ve_ dropped fifteen degrees. It’s just going to get worse.”

That didn’t seem quite right. Rudyard was full of warmth, actually, most of which culminated in a pleasant fuzzy sensation that centered in his chest. He quickly imagined his innards made out of shag carpeting. Close enough. And he couldn’t quite take his eyes away from Chapman, either, as if the very act of laying his eyes on him was a source of warmth.

As he put his mug down, though, Rudyard did have to note that his fingers had gone numb. He was only in his long johns and that windbreaker, after all, and … well. Spending overnight here alone would simply result in being frozen solid. Stuck to the linoleum floor like one of the mice in Mr. Dickerson’s humane traps.

Less than ideal.

He crossed his legs at the table as if beginning a negotiation. “Tell me your idea, then.”

“Well, the primary issue is that most of the clothing you came in with is probably half-frozen on the floor now.” A beat passed as Chapman gestured to the dark clumps of clothing and other miscellania that dotted the linoleum. Rudyard had to begrudgingly admit that was probably correct. “In theory, I could heat them up – but I’d need to start a fire, and I’m rather concerned that with the central air off, I’ll just end up smoking ourselves out.”

Less than ideal, too.

“And, well. I know Mr. Dickerson has a fire blanket here. He’s got to, it’s per fire regulation and I used to – nevermind. Point is, that’ll be made of wool and it’s probably in a boxand it’s probably very large. With that overtop of us, and our shared body heat, we should be alright. We can use the cushions we’ve been sitting on as pillows, even. Lap of luxury. I have to say that I’ve slept worse.”

Was the funeral parlor meant to have a fire blanket? Surely not. They _didn’t_ have a fire extinguisher. But what on Earth could cause a fire there? Minus the massively flammable materials Antigone worked with, but what good would she be with a fire extinguisher _or_ a fire blanket? That was what water was for, wasn’t it? Splash a bit of that on the flame and they would be fine.

Fire regulation, shmire regulation.

He had drifted from the matter at hand. “Shared body heat,” Rudyard repeated in a low voice. He had to make sure he was understanding Chapman exactly.

“It’s … I realize it’s not exactly _ideal_ for you, Rudyard, but I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t have a concern of freezing to death.” Chapman passed his tongue around his lips nervously. “But if you put your foot down and absolutely refuse, threaten to stab me to death in my sleep if I get within a meter of you, then – I’ll think of something else. Somehow.” He seemed doubtful about his ability. “We’d be fine.”

The cold _was_ seeping into Rudyard now, slinking in under his thermal underwear (what good _that_ was) and curling around his ribs. He was shivering already, damn it all, and he had to begrudgingly admit that Chapman’s idea could have been much, much worse. At least he wasn’t suggesting that they strip. Rudyard would have _willingly_ flung himself into the snow to die then.

The last time he’d shared a bed with someone, it had been with his sister Antigone. They’d been nine years of age and Antigone had sawed off one of her bed legs to make a miniature coffin model. Antigone had kicked him so badly during her night terrors that Rudyard had fallen onto the floor, where he decided to sleep. He’d woken with a bug in his hair.

This had to be better than that. Rudyard cleared his throat. “You’ll want to get that fire blanket, then,” he added through gritted teeth. “Before it starts to freeze along with anything else.”

Chapman’s face lit up in delight. “Oh, _thank you,_ Rudyard. Thank you.” Christ, was it built into human DNA to feel _good_ to make Chapman _happy?_ Surely that was an evolutionary flaw.

And Chapman was up and off, scouring for the fire blanket amongst the bits and bobs at the back of the front counter. Rudyard took a breath and sighed, taking the chair cushions that they’d been sitting on before dragging them as far away from the freezer _and_ the front door. It didn’t seem much warmer back there, but it would have to do. He sat cross-legged on the linoleum and watched as Chapman unfurled the fire blanket from its wooden box. Massive, that thing was, were they really made so big? It would be enough to wrap the both of them up … if they slept close to one another, that was.

_Proximity._

_There’s no need to be nervous,_ Rudyard told himself sternly. _It’s a matter of survival. People have done worse to survive. Antigone threatens to go cannibalistic the moment we’re out of cream. And it isn’t as if Chapman’s some sort of pervert._

“I almost regret laying my parka over poor Mr. Dickerson now,” Chapman mentioned mournfully while he returned. _Oh, do you think?_ He gently toed off his shoes (Rudyard wiggled his own toes inside the long johns, which mercifully covered the feet) and sat down next to him. “But I would feel bad if we just left him there with no sort of ceremony. Now, um - “ The fire blanket was clutched so tightly in his brown hands. _Why?_ “I should’ve asked. Are you ready to go to sleep? I don’t – ha, even know your sleeping schedule.”

“You don’t need to know my sleeping schedule. Private information,” Rudyard shot back, regretting the words as soon as he spoke them. It was so _hard_ to be snappy when he was cold and Chapman held something that promised warmth in his hands. He reached over and curled his fingers around the edge of it. “I could sleep, Chapman. You?” A beat passed. He was no good at noticing emotions, not really, but … “You seem … on edge.”

“It’s just that you haven’t said you _won’t_ stab me in my sleep, you know. And I’m concerned that this is going to make things … weird.”

Rudyard scoffed. “Ah, yes. God forbid something concerning me be _weird._ Lay down, Chapman, it’s perfectly all right. Survival, as you said.”

Survival it was. Rudyard rolled his portion of the blanket around his body so that it fit around him snugly, and Chapman did the same. He could feel the man’s body heat with how close he was laying, and it quickly became apparent that the most comfortable position – the one that didn’t tug too much on the blanket itself – was sleeping facing one another, and suddenly Rudyard was confronted with a close-up of Chapman’s big blue eyes.

“Hi there,” Chapman whispered facetiously. His breath smelled somewhat of gin.

God, he was bloody tall, wasn’t he? The edges of Rudyard’s toes were only brushing his shins. And he seemed to be _radiating_ heat. Given the situation, Rudyard was thrilled with that particular trait. He inched forward until he could feel the softness of Chapman’s sweater push against his own chest. His covered feet pressed against Chapman’s shins, and good _Lord_ he’d forgotten some people had noticeable muscle there. _That_ was good. “Do you think – in the morning -” Rudyard paused and took a breath, not sure if he even wanted to ask the chances. “Someone will find us?”

Chapman’s mouth immediately popped open to offer some false platitudes of reassurance. Whether he caught himself or caught Rudyard’s look, however, he quickly paused to think of it. “If the weather’s decent,” he finally elaborated, voice low. “If someone has some proper equipment to stage a rescue with. If people have decent winter gear so they won’t freeze to death themselves.”

Far more ‘ifs’ than Rudyard was precisely a fan of. Granted, they had food here, but how long could they really be expected to survive in the cold without any sort of electricity or warmth? They couldn’t huddle here in the corner forever.

For the night, though, it would be fine. It was fine for the next hour, at least, until Rudyard became acutely aware of his dagger-like elbows digging into the floor through the thin thermal blanket. That was going to become deeply uncomfortable, but facing Chapman – there was little ways he could place them. He ended up folding his arms awkwardly in front of his chest and gripping his elbows with both of his hands.

It was not a comfortable way to sleep. Rudyard wrinkled his nose uncomfortably as he nevertheless closed his eyes and tried not to focus on the way that his forearms were digging into Chapman’s own chest. He just had to count sheep. One, two, three –

“Um, Rudyard?”

“Trying to sleep, Chapman.”

“Right. I’m noticing. But it’s just, sort of - “ He took a deep breath. “This is going to be awkward no matter how we sleep together. It’s just going to be less uncomfortable if I, you know - “ Chapman shrugged his shoulders a bit. “Hold you? I mean, logistically. With how bodies work. It’ll be more comfortable.”

Of course, Rudyard’s first instinct was to reject. To mock. How dare Chapman offer something so absurd, so _strange,_ but … well, Christ, his elbows were hurting. And Chapman’s chest was soft, not at all the hard wall of muscle he occasionally pictured. There was something pleasantly squishy around his middle. Still, there was his pride to consider, and he wouldn’t have much of it left if he kept associating things like _Chapman_ and _squishy_. “Only if I get to hold you as well,” he shot back, and Chapman relented.

He slid his arms around Chapman’s neck. That was a little more comfortable, there, wasn’t it? He could at least keep his elbows from digging uncomfortably into the linoleum. There was a pause on Chapman’s end before his arms slowly, cautiously slid around Rudyard’s lower back. He held him tightly – more tightly, Rudyard reasoned, than he was holding Chapman – but then again, did he really want to be squeezing Chapman’s neck the same way?

Yes. Yes, he did. Just maybe not that night.

“Warmer, too.” Chapman’s voice puffed against the side of his head there, and Rudyard did have to begrudgingly admit that it wasn’t a bad idea. It was _comfortable,_ even. Who could ever imagine Chapman, of all people, being comfortable? And yet, curled up under the thermal blanket, his arms folded around Chapman’s neck, he felt like he could properly sleep without fear of freezing to death.

Slowly, cautiously, he tilted his head until it rested on Chapman’s chest. He was ready to yank it back at the _sheer implication_ of mockery, but none came. Instead, he noticed Chapman’s already strong grip pull him even closer.

There should have been threats, of course. Warnings that if Chapman ever breathed a word of this to anyone, he’d – well, he’d make a _good many_ empty threats, thank you very much. They didn’t come to his lips. Instead, Rudyard could only focus on the sensation blooming in his chest. It was like an oversimmering pot, like if he moved _just_ the wrong way then everything would come spilling out of him.

Not in a bad sense, no. In a sense that reminded him that he was a human – and Chapman was a human – and sometimes, humans could feel a connection so inexplicable and so strong that, at the moment of realization, everything else seemed as lively as a corpse in a morgue.

_Oh._

Oh, _no._ No, no, no no. _No._ That couldn’t be. Certainly, it made sense – it made a lot of things come together – puzzle pieces _thunk_ -ing into place – but _Chapman?_ Really? Of all the people, it had to be his rival, the man who _clearly_ had malevolent intentions, the man who …

Was holding him, terribly terribly nicely. As if he were cherished and respected.

Perhaps Rudyard could relax. At least tonight. Chapman only barely tolerated him – thought of him as a business competitor, nothing more – and thus, Rudyard didn’t have to worry about it. The feelings would go away. All feelings did, eventually.

“Think that’ll be good enough to be sleeping with,” Rudyard remarked, eyes already falling shut. “Goodnight, Chapman.”

And then the most peculiar puzzle of all happened. Chapman didn’t respond for a long moment, to the point where Rudyard supposed that he didn’t _need_ a return goodnight. Bit rude, though, wasn’t it? Even if they were just business competitors. But Chapman did respond, and his voice sounded … off. _Thick,_ like he’d been close to crying. “Goodnight, Rudyard.”

Strange. Perhaps he simply smelled badly? Or perhaps – but who was to guess.

With that, and basking in the glow of rare affection, Rudyard found himself drifting quickly off to sleep.


	4. First Kiss

He’d been awake for an hour, and Christ, he sort of needed to piss.

They’d woken (well, Rudyard supposed _he’d_ woken) to the sound of water dripping down the front windows. The snow was melting. Not by much, to be certain, but at least the weather wouldn’t be _frigid._ The world outside of the thermal blanket was still unpleasant, however, so Rudyard had opted to stay exactly where he was. More of a nest than a bed, really, and yet – much better than his one back home.

He was sure that Chapman was still asleep. Had to have been, wouldn’t he? Yes, Chapman was in the process of rubbing his back in slow, smooth movements and it _was_ very nice, but that didn’t mean anything. Rudyard hadn’t wanted to call out Chapman’s name, in fear that it would stop.

But surely, if Chapman was awake, he would’ve said something by now. So - overwhelming likelihood that he was asleep, and just subconsciously stroking his back in an awfully nice way. Rudyard let himself stay there for a while longer. The feelings, unfortunately, hadn’t gone away with rest. But Rudyard could indulge every now and then.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he became aware of a skittering noise across the floor. “Madeline?” Rudyard inquired groggily. “Is that you, Madeline?”

“ _Squeak.”_ (“Am I interrupting a lover’s embrace, Rudyard? You could have mentioned something, I would have given you two some privacy.”)

Rudyard settled. “ _Shuddup.”_

“ _Squeak.”_ (“It’s just what I see. But – look, someone’s coming over the square.”)

 _That_ was enough to pique Rudyard’s interest. He released his arms from around Chapman and rolled over to look through the large windows at the front of the cafe. There was Madeline, wearing what appeared to be a bit of napkin as a jacket. Her front paws were resting on the front window, and …

Christ alive. Antigone and Georgie. And a wooden sled. And Timmy. And _where_ on Earth did they get those snow outfits? Had they had those all the while? He’d come here partially draped in a curtain, for God’s sake, and – they were coming right for the cafe. They were _staging_ a rescue. For him? A smile came unbidden to his face, and he half-crawled out of Chapman’s arms to sit up and stare at the sight.

Yes, indeed they were. Georgie had the cord for the sled wrapped around her hand. On the sled, Rudyard could see a few of the grave-digging shovels strewn about, and – oh, yes, a few body bags, that wasn’t … wasn’t the _most_ optimistic, was it – and some torches. Antigone was plodding along behind her, looking twitchy, and Timmy was bounding along in the snow like a particularly possessed rabbit.

He complained about his family on a near-constant basis. And with good reason, Rudyard privately figured. But in that moment, Rudyard could’ve been reduced to tears with the amount of affection blooming in his chest for them – not that he would _ever_ admit such a thing. They were coming to get him. They were _rescuing_ him.

Christ, but he was so lucky.

There was shifting behind him as Chapman sat himself up. “They’ve – they’re getting here already?” He asked in a sleep-rough voice. A hand was placed on Rudyard’s shoulder. His mind conjured up a different scenario altogether – _come back to bed, sweetheart,_ all said in Chapman’s voice. No, he was going to be stomping _that_ out right away. He wasn’t going to let himself dwell in such matters.

“Seems to be. We ought to get everything together.” Rudyard gestured with a messy hand towards the inside of the cafe. There were still scads of discarded clothing, dirty dishes, various powder spilled everywhere. “Doubt they’ll want to linger much.”

And he’d rather get some clothes on that weren’t long johns and a windbreaker, frankly. Even if they were frozen.

“Of course, of course,” Came Chapman’s distracted voice behind him. The hand wasn’t removed from his shoulder, and neither made any move to get up. The duo outside were getting closer, though Rudyard fancied that he and Chapman weren’t able to be seen from that distance with all the light reflecting off the snow outside. “I just – needed to say something, first, if – if that’s alright.”

Rather than move his body properly, Rudyard instead just tilted his head to the side and back so he could look at Chapman from over his shoulder. Oh, _well,_ he really was close, wasn’t he? And he had stubble. Fine little blond hairs were poking through his chin and cheeks, and it was the closest to disheveled that Rudyard had ever seen him. The thought didn’t exactly fill him with sadistic glee, because it wasn’t like Chapman looked _worse_ for it.

“I just, I know that the idea of spending a night trapped somewhere with me sounds like your own personal hell. I’m aware. But it’s been rather very – pleasant, all things considered? It’s been a long while since I’ve had cause to …” Chapman’s voice took on a lyrical, almost impatient tone. “You know, make _dinner_ for someone, or lay in bed with someone, or hold some – “ His voice got rougher. He cut himself off. “And I just … I simply … oh, _hell,_ Rudyard.”

Seemingly frustrated with his own ineloquence, Chapman tilted his head forward to meet Rudyard’s lips.

Suffice to say that Rudyard was deeply surprised and it took most of his willpower not to instinctually pull away, certain that this was either Chapman’s long-awaited murder attempt or first foray into cannibalism. To think of it as Chapman _kissing_ him, well, took a few seconds of convincing. Finally, Rudyard had to confront the fact that this _likely_ indicated Chapman had some sort of romantic feeling for him.

Probably.

He leaned into it, himself, even while Chapman’s arm moved from around his shoulder to curling around his midsection. Rudyard moved his hand up to feel at his morning stubble. Beyond that, Rudyard couldn’t say with any degree of certainty how long the kiss lasted. He was only aware of how soft Chapman’s lips were, even at this early in the morning, and the heady sighs Chapman was emitting every now and then, and how Rudyard was slowly but steadily pulling Chapman back down, down, down to lay back on the blanket with him.

Eventually, the kiss was broken by a panicked _squeak! (“So sorry to interrupt you two boys, but –!”)_ and then a clunky _thunk!_ Against the window pane.

“I dunno, I can’t see anything, it’s really dark in there. Maybe they’ve killed one another?”

“Murder-suicide,” Antigone intoned gravely from beside her. We ought to excavate the bodies.”

The speed with which Rudyard pushed Chapman away and scrambled up to his feet was enough to make him nearly pass out. Christ, he really ought to take a multivitamin or some such. Beside him, Chapman did the same with considerably more dexterity. He quickly began to readjust and straighten his turtleneck.

“Come in!?” Rudyard called out, immediately starting to do the same to his own clothing. Shit, shit, _shit._ He kicked the thermal blanket away. Like hell he was going to mention to Antigone that he had shared a makeshift bed with Chapman last night.

The kiss was – he didn’t _know_ what the kiss was, but it would be dealt with later. It had to be dealt with later.

“Alright, sir, we’re going to get you out of there!” There was the sound of shovels being dug into thick snow. “Put your back into it, Antigone.” Antigone’s growls of disgust.

Rudyard tapped at his thigh – “Madeline – Madeline, Madeline, Madeline, get in my pocket. We’re about to be going soon.”

“ _Squeak.” (_ “Don’t think we’re not going to be talking about this, Rudyard.”) Nevertheless, Madeline scampered away from the door, up Rudyard’s leg, and made herself quite at home in the pocket sewn on the breast of Rudyard’s long johns. Rudyard felt his face grow hot.

“Yes, yes, yes, we’ll talk about it later – “ To his right, Rudyard saw Chapman’s face light up as if Rudyard had offered him a treat. “But for now, let’s just focus on not freezing to death on the way back.”

Outside, the shovel clanked against the ground and then clinked against the glass door. They’d made it. Hopefully it would be enough to – and it _was._ With a herculean groan of effort, Georgie shoved her entire body against the door and that was enough.

On the other side of the open door stood Georgie and Antigone. Rudyard checked to see if they might be awash with grief, just a tad, but frankly – they just looked cold and exhausted. “Well, it’s taken you long enough.”

No, they were more than cold and exhausted. They had a strange look on their face. Chapman looked at them both quizzically – then dropped his head into his hand.

“Er, have we interrupted something?” Rudyard fixed Georgie with a perplexed look. “You’re in your skivvies and your face is red as a tomato.”

“It’s the cold,” Chapman broke in, speaking more quickly than normal. “Rudyard insisted on sleeping on his freezing-cold clothing last night, we ought to be grateful that he’s not got frostbite himself, silly Rudyard, I _told_ you I’d be more than willing to light a fire – “

“Better that you didn’t,” Georgie shot back bluntly, “The smoke would’ve choked you all out immediately.”

“Ha. Right. Right, right.”

“We should be getting back home.” Antigone broke in, fussing. “We can catch up on your, I’m sure, very thrilling night _later._ It’s _freezing.”_ Timmy nudged his way in through the open door, giving a gleeful bark at the sight of Rudyard and bounding over. Rudyard felt Madeline curl more firmly into his pocket. “If I don’t keep adding wood to the fire oven, the morgue starts to freeze.”

“I fail to see where that’s a problem,” Rudyard started. He took a few steps towards the door. He would be thrilled to get out of there. “Not like the bodies will get chilly.”

“Keeping bodies too cold can actually be terrible for them, you know, when it comes to the preservation casket. Sure, they’ll likely stay recognizable, but _hardly_ funeral-ready.” Chapman reached his hand down for Timmy to sniff. Timmy turned his nose up at him, in favor of circling around Rudyard and sniffing at his feet. “I actually gave a few engineering recommendations to a morgue stationed in the Arctic. If you’d like, I can look around and see how I can he – “

Georgie waved him off. “Well, you’ll _have_ to be coming over, anyway. I’m not going trampsing all around Piffling Vale to deliver you to Chapman’s. We’ll make some tea or something.”

Rudyard wanted to wave such a foolish gesture off. Keeping Chapman _around_ would only make things uncomfortable – after all, they now had to _talk_ about the kiss, and he was certain he’d rather die than have that talk with Antigone or Georgie in earshot. Still, he was hardly going to argue with Georgie, when she was the one who had positively saved him. He only looked back over his shoulder at Chapman.

For God’s sake. Chapman looked thrilled _._ “Of course. Thank you both.”

Chapman walked forward to hold the door open. The first hit of bracing freezing wind made Rudyard want to fling himself back into the comparatively warmer cafe, but some things had to be done. He thought of Chapman’s warm arms around him, the soft wool of his turtleneck pressing into his face. Wouldn’t _that_ be nice right about now?

Timmy hopped obediently up on the sled, skidding a few inches on the body bags piled up on it. At that moment, something seemed to occur to him, just as Antigone asked: “What ever happened to Mr. Dickerson filling the order, anyway?”

Chapman turned and clenched his upper arm in a vice grip. Rudyard did the same with equal realization and shock. They gaped at each other with equal astonishment.

“ _Mr. Dickerson!”_

And, with fervor, both funeral directors broke into a sprint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the end! Thought it might be best to post this all at once instead of chunks. This is one of my works that was meant to be <5k, but oops, it started to sprawl. Love me some Wooden Overcoats.
> 
> Writing fic for comedy podcasts is always a trip, because you want to toe that careful line of making sure they're /as/ ridiculous as they are in the show without completely stripping them of their humanity, so hope I did Rudyard a bit of justice here. It's also nice writing fic for a podcast where tripping over a corpse and being pretty chill about it is totally normal and doesn't need 20k words of reaction!
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


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